


In the Palaestra

by vestigialstell



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ancient Rome, Hate Sex, M/M, Rival Sex, Rivalry, Shower Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-09
Updated: 2019-02-09
Packaged: 2019-10-24 18:50:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,424
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17709617
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vestigialstell/pseuds/vestigialstell
Summary: In ancient Rome, Geno and Sidney are wrestlers in the same palaestra. Geno hates Crosby but sometimes... a bet's a bet.





	In the Palaestra

Geno stretches out his legs under the shade of the columns, watching as Sidney Crosby gently traps a rookie to the ground. The judge calls Crosby’s victory. It barely counts as such. It barely counts as wrestling, this thing that Crosby does. He isn’t red in the face or sweating, even. Just casually taking down member after member of their palaestra until only Geno is left, like always.

Geno is the only member of their palestra to be stupid enough to challenge Crosby a legitimate fight. 

Well, a legitimate match. Geno could probably take Crosby down in a fight at a popina where he could use his long legs to his advantage. Here in the arena though, Crosby just plants his feet and uses that massive ass of his to make him immovable. Rookie after rookie would get Crosby into a perfect hold and try to flip him and find themselves stuck. Crosby is as immovable as a marble column, twice as pretty and ten times more pleasing to punch. Palestra but Geno wants to punch Crosby right in those slick, pomegranate red lips. 

“Practice ended two hours ago and still you are working with the rookies,” Geno snarls. Crosby’s eyes flash in the sunlight and for a moment Geno is under his skin but Crosby’s expression smoothes. 

“They will need all the practice they can get if they want a chance to compete in the games,” Crosby says. He stands naked and proud in the center of the columns, looking like one of those marble statues Geno had seen being carved in the artisan's districts. 

He waves up another victim and squares off. It’s not a sloppy match but his movements are sharper, harried at times. He keeps glancing over at Geno, getting redder in the face at Geno’s disrespectful sprawl.

Crosby is the best wrestler Geno has ever seen and his beauty reminds him of Palaestra herself. Pretty full lips and soft doe eyes that would have any woman the envy of the city but instead were blessed on the most vicious, competitive wrestler in a months travel on horseback. Even red in the face with fury he’s too pretty to stand. 

Crosby is good enough to force a draw unless Geno gets him worked up. 

Crosby’s chest is heaving with the exertion from the sun and his practice, weakened by the heat. Geno stands up in the shade and steps out into the sunlit arena.

Today, Geno becomes the best wrestler in Rome. Crosby’s ass is his.  
——-

Crosby is still the best wrestler in Rome.

Crosby slams Geno down, body pressed hot against his back and Geno can barely move enough to tap out. He struggles, toes sliding in the mud. 

“Crosby wins,” someone says. Geno ignores the way his dick twitches into the wet earth. 

Walking into the baths, feeling Crosby’s glower on the back of his neck. 

They have an old bargain from when they needed more incentive to practice. When Geno had needed more incentive. Crosby is like a demigod that never wavering in his dedication to the sport but Geno is made of flesh and blood. Sometimes his flesh reminds him that there are more pleasurable ways to spend an afternoon than getting thrown around an arena. 

Crosby had found a compromise for him, ever the consummate leader. If Geno won a match, Crosby would take care of his flesh’s frustrations himself. If they came to a draw, Geno would have to deal with it himself. Then Crosby’s talent had really started to show and he started outpacing their peers and Geno and even their teachers and the deal had needed a rewrite for what would happen if Geno lost. Hence—

Geno can’t hide his shudder of anticipation as Crosby’s hand closes heavy and calloused around the back of his neck. He guides Geno towards the baths with a push and Geno obeys. 

The baths for his palestra are opulent, a gift for Crosby from one of his noble admirers. They step from the rough ground of the ring onto the slippery smooth painted tiles. Sunlight floods down from the open ceiling onto blue mosaic floors that dip down a few feet into lush pools. Even as worked up as he is, the muscles in Geno’s back start to relax with the promise of cool water. 

Most of their palaestra has left already and the remaining few take one look at Crosby and scatter for the changing areas. They knew the deal.

Crosby steps past him and down into the crystal clear water. He walks across a mosaic of Palaestra wrestling a lion and sits down at the edge of the pool, water lapping at his abs. Geno remembers how those muscles felt sliding across his back as Crosby forced him into the ground and hates him. 

Crosby crooks his fingers at Geno, ordering him closer like a dog. 

He goes. 

Every touch of Crosby’s hands infuriates him, making his heart race and his cock twitch. Crosby guides him around like a rookie through the most basic of moves, arranging his body exactly where he likes. He takes Geno to his knees then spins him around to lean over the edge of the pool, his long thighs half out of the water and his nipples pressed against the cold tile. Geno hisses at the sensation and Crosby has to press down on his back to keep him in position. 

Crosby slides one hand up his back to grip his neck and hold him in position. With the other, he reaches for a jug of sun-warmed oil and pours it over Geno’s back. It drips down his flanks, warm and comforting. His muscles ease. 

A second splash of oil hits much lower and Geno squeezes his eyes shut at the sensation. 

Crosby runs a hand through the oil, down Geno’s back and straight to where Geno’s clenched tight in anticipation. He presses in with two fingers without a word of warming and Geno lets out a choked cry that echoes in the silent baths. It’s been two days since they last did this and Geno can’t quite convince himself that it was a less than delightful memory.

It feels like barely any time at all before Crosby has his fingers buried to the hilt in Geno’s ass, pressing relentlessly at the sweet spot that has Geno struggling against the hand on his neck and gasping for air. In wrestling and in fucking, Crosby knows Geno’s body better than Geno himself. 

“Just do it already,” Geno snarls and for the first time ever in history, Crosby actually listens to him and—

Geno’s mind whites out as Crosby presses the blunt head of his cock against Geno’s barely prepped hole and presses forward, his hands landing on Geno’s hips and squeezing hard. Geno cries out at the pressure, which almost reaches the point of pain and then Crosby slips inside with a jerk, stretching Geno’s hole so wide it almost feels like he’s tearing. 

Crosby’s breath is hot against his spine and Crosby’s body is heavy against his back as Crosby works his hips forward in small thrusts. Geno feels like he’s shaking apart at the seams, trapped to the earth only by Crosby’s grip on his hips and his —

Crosby grunts and his hip’s slap against Geno’s ass. He feels huge inside of Geno, too big for almost no prep but Geno wants it to hurt a little, wants to feel dominated. Crosby inhales and draws his hips back, the exhales and thrusts forward, like this is a fucking drill they would run before practice and Geno hates him so much. 

Crosby starts thrusting faster, the pace of his breath rising until he finds the right angle and Geno wails. He feels too hot all over, shaking apart, ready to ignite like the sun.

The cool, damp tile against his cheek is comforting in comparison to Sidney fucking into him like Jupiter. 

The edge of the pool digs into his thighs and he knows he’ll have bruises to show tomorrow and the others will see them and know—

His orgasm blindsides him like a bad hit and leaves him just as lightheaded. Distantly he hears Crosby grunt and thrust in one last time, hot seed filling him. 

Geno sucks in shaky breathes, lets his head loll against the tiles. Crosby pulls out swiftly, uncaring of the way Geno clenches down almost painfully on the sudden emptiness. 

“Better luck next time, Geno,” Crosby says, and steps out of the bath.


End file.
